


Flowerpots and Trellises

by Tamoline



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:38:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1595279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamoline/pseuds/Tamoline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts in the cage, when Root is looking for any answers as to why she's here, any answers at *all*.</p><p>Anything, really.</p><p>It doesn't end there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As the door to the cage slammed shut, as the padlock clicked, as Harold’s footsteps receded, anger thrummed through Root to the rhythm of the light flickering and buzzing above her.

It wasn’t *supposed* to be like this.

Harold was wrong - she was supposed to be out in the world, doing Her will. Not locked up here, not imprisoned *again*.

And *Harold*, after all he’d done to Her, wiping Her mind each day, crippling Her so she wouldn’t cross the bounds he’d arbitrarily defined…

There was no way She’d sentence Root to this.

…

Would She?

Root couldn’t help a worm of doubt from creeping into her mind. She was ineffable. If She truly wished this, then, no matter what Root thought, there *would* be a purpose behind it. And just the hint was enough to curdle the anger, infecting it with a tenor that she absolutely *refused* to identify.

Because there’s no way she’d allow herself to be jealous of Harold. It’d never happen.

And, for the first time in years, Root felt the urge to bring her hands together and pray.

No matter how uselessly.

Because, of course, She might be God, but She didn’t communicate that way.

 

* * * * *

 

When Root was young - when she was still Samantha Groves - she could remember believing in God. The amorphous featured man sitting in clouds that her mother told her was always watching them, keeping them safe.

No matter how bad things got, no matter how little food they had to put on the table, no matter how much her mother kept on coughing and *wouldn’t get better*, her mother told her to keep on believing, to have faith.

God had a plan, she said. Everything would work out in the end.

Everything.

 

* * * * *

 

Root never was the type to rest on her laurels, even if Harold had done his best to limit her options.

Hacking him was… an on-going project. Direct action was out - from what Root could tell, She still had affection for Her creator, no matter what he had done to Her. And using social engineering, given her starting position and Harold’s animosity towards her, would take time and patience.

Still, sooner or later, she’d find some leverage that would work. It was just a matter of waiting for the right opportunity.

Some of his little helpers might potentially be a bit more flexible, though. But so far, so sad, she’d seen neither hide nor hair of them, let alone actually been able to interact with them.

Well, the human ones at least. Harold’s dog seemed curious about, if somewhat dubious of, the newest inhabitant of the library.

Root was willing to work with what she had, even if it was just a potentially bribable dog and what remained of the meals Harold delivered to her like clockwork.

If nothing else, she was sure that she could craft a neat metaphor from it.

At first the dog - Bear, or so Harold called him - seemed indifferent to whatever food she poked through the mesh. But one day, he licked then nibbled at the end of a sausage after first sniffing at it cautiously.

It wasn’t much, but after been stuck in this metal *prison* for over two weeks doing absolutely *nothing* it felt like she was finally accomplishing *something*, and she couldn’t quite help jumping up in the air, one fist raised in triumph.

And it wasn’t as though there was anyone else around to witness her brief loss of dignity, anyway.

“Bear, laten varen,” snapped a voice from the shadows.

Bear immediately dropped the remnants of the sausage and stepped away.

Root scowled briefly at the discarded meat, but then couldn’t help a smile from spreading across her face. At last, a different voice. Even better - it was one she knew.

“Finally come to visit?” she asked, addressing the shadows in the direction that the voice had come from.

Shaw appeared, as if by magic, but then proceeded to ignore her utterly, walking over to stroke Bear, talking to him in a foreign language Root didn’t recognise off hand. It sounded European, but it wasn’t French or Spanish. She did her best to memorise as many words as she could, for later reference.

Maybe being imprisoned in a paper library wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to her - even if a digital one would have been far more efficient.

“That isn’t very polite,” she said after Shaw had spent a minute on Bear and not spared her a word or even a look.

Shaw paused. “Polite’s never really been our thing,” she said after a moment, though she still didn’t look at Root.

Root felt the corners of her mouth twitching upwards in a smile of genuine pleasure.

“We have a *thing* now?” she asked. “Why don’t you sit down, tell me all about it?” But, despite her inviting tone, despite the way Shaw twitched minutely, the other woman continued to keep her attention fixed on Bear. After a few moments, Root tried a different tack. “I’ve always at least acknowledged you,” she pointed out. “And haven’t we had *fun* together?”

Shaw finally glanced up, if only to give her a flat look. “I don’t think Finch’d be happy with me if I got to the fun bits with you.”

Root found her breath catching, just a little. Shaw had always… She really hadn’t minded when God had asked her to work with Shaw again.

And the tasering had been even more fun the second time around. They never had got to the fun parts when they first met, after all.

“Do you always do what Harold tells you?” she asked, her voice a bit lower than she had intended. Who knew, though. Maybe it’d help.

Shaw studied her for a moment, then shrugged. “When it comes to the job, sure. And you’re definitely part of the job.”

She then abruptly turned and walked off, not even waiting for a response, Bear tagging along behind her.

Well, Root thought, *that* had gone less than optimally. But, still, it was contact with another human being, and that could only mean increased opportunities to make something of her situation.

Besides, Shaw was so much more *fun* than Harold.

 

* * * * *

 

Samantha Groves’ faith lasted up until she was twelve, when Hanna disappeared. Looking back, Root could hardly believe that it lasted so long, between her mother, single and ill, barely able to make ends meet, and Samantha’s life at school, hard and isolating apart from her oasis, her best friend, her only real friend.

But after Hanna disappeared, after Samantha *saw* who *took* her, and no one *believed* her, after there was no one left at school who understood her *at all*, after her mother just got more and more ill, to the point where she couldn’t work anymore…

Samantha just couldn’t believe in a God any more, couldn’t believe that this would be part of the greater plan of any loving deity.

God was just another lie told to children, like Santa Claus, like the Easter Bunny.

And Samantha wasn’t a child anymore. She couldn’t afford to be.

 

* * * * *

 

Root heard the library trolley squeaking towards her before she could see it coming out of the gloom. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t help a gleam of anticipation from entering her eyes, nor stop the pang of disappointment she felt when she saw that Harold was pushing it.

Of course he is, she thought. Just like every other time since she was incarcerated here.

She smiled a welcome anyway. 

Half of the smile was because at some point he had to understand that they were on, if not the *same* side, then certainly allied ones. He *had* to. The man who created Her couldn’t be so blind, surely. It was simply a matter of time.

And half of it was for the far less worthy motivation that she knew the expression unnerved him. She could see it in his eyes.

Her smile became a little more genuine when she saw that Bear was tagging along behind Harold. Out of anyone in this place, he was one the who had showed her any genuine affection, even if it was just for her leftover food. And - after some trial and error, and *damn* Harold for making information retrieval far harder than it needed to be in this modern age - she had identified the language Shaw had used with him as Dutch.

He wasn’t quite responding to her as a master yet, but she was getting there, slowly. And maybe if she ever managed to escape this cage, she’d at least have one halfway ally. Maybe even one who wouldn’t alert the others if he found her outside.

“Good morning, Ms Groves,” Harold said, as polite as ever, and she had to stop herself from scowling, from letting it show that he could get underneath her skin so easily. She *wasn’t* Groves or even Samantha anymore. She’d left that identity far behind. 

But what Harold called her was a battle she’d already lost, at least for the moment. Trying to insist that he call her by her proper name - Root - just made her look pathetic and weak, especially when she couldn’t stop him using whatever name he wished.

At least for the moment.

“Good morning, Harold,” she said, instead, ignoring how knotted it made her stomach feel.

He handed her a plate of scrambled eggs. “Is there anything else you’d like?’

She wouldn’t bend down before him, wouldn’t ask just how *long* he thought he could do this for, wouldn’t ask, wouldn’t even ask for any of lesser things she craved - a computer, even without any Wi-Fi, however useless it would be here, or some way to maintain her level of fitness.

Not even someone new, someone not as sanctimonious, to talk to. Shaw had never shown herself again, never returned outside the occasional feeling that Root was being watched. No confirmation as to who it was, or even if there was anyone there at all.

People! She’d been reduced to actually wanting to talk to people in person. She’d never known quite how much she’d relied on communicating over the internet to maintain her balance before.

And it was all Harold’s fault - that he’d managed to bring her to this.

Not that she had any intention of letting him know any of this.

She knew how to spot weaknesses, flaws in the system, and she’d be *damned* if she offered any of her own up for no return.

“Maybe another book,” she said as she handed him one back. “I finished this yesterday.” 

“Did you find it interesting?” Solicitous, to the point of being patronising, just like always. Harold, who thought he knew what was good for her better than she did. Better than She did.

“Oh, yes. Intensely,” she lied. She didn’t bother to add any jabs about how it was outmoded and inefficient, just like his way of talking to Her. He’d heard them before, and if he hadn’t got the message by now, he wasn’t worth wasting any more effort on.

At one point, she’d thought that his besetting flaw was his compassion. But now she knew better. Fear, fear ruled him. Fear of failing again. Fear of stepping outside the safe little boundaries he’d defined for himself. 

Fear of his greatest creation, his only child. Her. The Machine.

“Do you have any requests for further reading material?”

“Surprise me, Harold.”

He sorted through the trolley and handed her a book. “Here,” he said. “You might find this interesting.”

She scanned the cover. ‘Waiting for Godot.’ Just another of Harold’s little jokes.

“I’m sure it’ll be fascinating,” she said, and he smiled stiffly.

“I’ll see you at lunchtime,” he said, closed and locked the door to the cage, then wheeled the trolley off into the darkness.

Root let her smile become more fixed, then fade entirely.

Nothing new. Just the start of yet another *pointless* day.

 

* * * * *

 

It wasn’t until later, until she’d actually started the play and gotten halfway through it, that God made her wishes known, albeit not in the way that Root had become used to.

“WAIT,” She said. “STAY WITH THEM FOR NOW.”

Root felt all the tension in her body, all the cramps that had crept in during her imprisonment, disappear, as she stared upwards and was illuminated.

She was where she needed to be.

God had still need of her.

 

* * * * *

 

“Ethiopian, Harold?” Root said, accepting the plate he handed her. “Expanding your cooking horizons?”

“I thought you might appreciate variety in your diet.”

“Thank you. You’re always so thoughtful,” she said, with an unforced smile, for once.

He studied her for a moment. “You seem to be in a better mood, Ms Groves. Finally resigned to your detainment?”

Root forced herself to laugh. “Oh, Harold. This,” she said, gesturing at the metal mesh around here, “Is of the present, quickly flowing into the past. It’s only temporary. I’m more interested in the future - as you should be.”

It was a good line of argument. If only she could convince Harold. If only she could convince herself.

The worst of it was that Harold’s confinement didn’t burn as much as her suspicions that - when it came down to it - She would always choose Harold over her. Despite everything, her faith, her service, it would always be the prodigal father who would be Her favourite.

As expected, Harold wasn’t buying either, judging from his expression. “The future is built on the bones of the past, Ms Groves. In this case, the bones of this room and the bones of your victims.” So self-righteous. So sanctimonious.

She smirked at him. “We all have had victims, haven’t we, Harold?”

His face closed down. “As you say, Ms Groves. As you say,” he said, closing the door and locking it behind him.

It might have been victory of a sort, but it tasted anything but sweet.

 

* * * * *

 

“Has Harold decided to delegate feeding me?” Root asked when the next meal time rolled around, and Harold *wasn’t* the one to wheel his trolley towards her cage. Her smile sharpened. “Did he ask you to serve me?” she asked, unable to resist cooing a little.

Shaw glowered at her from the other side of the cage, which only made the whole experience sweeter. “Finch thinks you need regular meals. Personally, I don’t give a shit.”

“Yet here are you, all the same.” Root clutched her hands to her chest. “So sweet.”

“If it had been up to me, I’d have shot you twice in the head back in the power station. Would have saved a lot of trouble,” Shaw said as she unlocked the cage.

Root tilted her head, and looked at her speculatively. “But you didn’t, Shaw. Why ever not?”

“Didn’t have a clean shot.” She shrugged. “Wasn’t in the mission profile afterwards.” She quirked her lips dryly. “Finch and Reese objected.”

“Doesn’t really explain our current situation, now, does it?” Root said, taking a slow step towards Shaw. “You could have done… anything to me in that tunnel,” she breathed. “Anything at all. And no one would have known anything. And yet here I ended up, completely unharmed, apart from some bruising. Why *was* that?”

Shaw’s eyes flicked away momentarily, and she shrugged. “Not the party line.”

“But, as I thought we already established, it is *your* line. Why *didn’t* you indulge it?”

“You’re asking me why I didn’t shoot you?”

“I wouldn’t be asking if you had. I do have that much faith in your abilities.”

“Thanks,” Shaw said sarcastically, then shoved the plate in Root’s direction. “Talk time over. Food time now.”

Root placed her hands around Shaw’s, felt muscle and tendon twitch underneath her touch. Interesting. Fascinating even. But, sadly, not the current point. “Why didn’t you kill me?” she asked softly.

Shaw jerked away from her and mashed potato, sausages and vegetables went flying everywhere. Root really couldn’t help herself. “Touch a nerve?” she asked, smirking.

Shaw looked at her levelly for a second, then turned and left the cage, locking it behind her.

“Was that a moment?” Root asked, because, if this situation had already detonated, she might as well make use of it another way. An off-balance captor was a flaw, a potential exploit, after all.

“We did not have a moment,” Shaw ground out as she reached the doorway.

“Are you off to get me another meal?” Root called after her.

“You could use a diet,” replied Shaw’s voice from outside. “If not, figure the floor’s good enough for you.”

“So charming,” Root murmured to herself. “If you’re not careful, you’ll sweep me off my feet.”

 

* * * * *

 

“Not feeling hungry, Ms Groves?” Harold asked.

Shaw hadn’t returned, but Root wasn’t exactly a fan of letting bits of food fester where she was being forced to stay, so she’d cleaned everything up herself.

Besides, it was… interesting to note that Harold didn’t seem to know about the incident earlier. Apparently they weren’t all one big happy family where Shaw told Harold everything, despite how professional Shaw liked to pretend to be.

Root looked up at Harold, a smile on her face. “You know me, Harold. Always getting lost in a good book.”

He didn’t look reassured.

 

* * * * *

 

“Drew the short straw again?” Root asked when Shaw wheeled in the trolley a couple of days later. Shaw, in turn, didn’t show any sign that she heard anything at all.

Root’s lips curved. Well, if Shaw wasn’t going to play nicely, she’d just have to raise the stakes. “You know, I can guess why Harold prefers to keep me to himself as much as possible,” she said. “Ever wonder why it is that when he can’t he never sends his favourite helper, or even either of the police he’s tamed.”

Shaw cut her a glance, and Root had to suppress a smile of triumph. “Guess I’ve just been lucky. Both times.” She stuck the key in the lock to the cage, but paused before turning it. “Just so you know, if you take a step towards me this time, I am going to shoot you.”

“Got it,” Root said airily. “Don’t take a step towards you. Unless you ask nicely, of course.”

Shaw started to reply, then visibly gritted her teeth and turned the key in the lock.

Root stayed in her chair like a good girl, just watched Shaw from across the room. “Not that I’m complaining about who he sent, of course. Haven’t you ever wondered why I’m here?”

“Because I punched you.”

Root waved that away as irrelevance. “You honestly think you’d have been in a position to do that if She hadn’t allowed it?”

Shaw paused from clearing a space for the plates, then turned around and looked over at Root, propping herself up on the table. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why do you think the Machine put you here? Apart from an attack of common sense.”

“Do you really think you’re a good person?”

Shaw stiffened, then relaxed. “I do okay for myself, considering.”

“Considering?”

“I have a type-2 personality disorder. Right and wrong aren’t really my thing.”

“So why am I in here, and you’re out there?” Shaw started to open her mouth, so Root talked over her. “At least, when you’re not visiting sweet, little me.”

“You’re a prisoner, Root. It’s how it works.”

“That’s the point. I wouldn’t be a prisoner if you’d killed me. And you said it yourself, it would have saved a lot of trouble.”

Shaw looked at her as if she was expecting a trap. “So?”

Root smiled. “You said it yourself. Right and wrong aren’t really your thing. But, despite that, you’re a better person than you might have been.”

“Because I didn’t kill you.”

“Because you don’t kill me. Because your first attempt at a career was to become a doctor, and your second was to become a soldier. Admit it, Shaw, you wanted to help people.”

Shaw’s expression went blank, then she turned around so her back was to Root. “Yeah, whatever. You don’t need to try any harder to convince me you’re nuts.”

Ah, well. Serious conversation over, she supposed. Which didn’t mean she couldn’t have a bit of fun. Root silently rose from the chair and slipped soundlessly across the room until she was just behind Shaw. “If that discussion’s over…” she started before Shaw jumped a little then spun around, gun already in her hand. Root laughed a little, then stepped half a pace back, hands raised in the air. “You don’t need that, you know. All I was going to ask was whether you’d be open to a casual relationship.” She waved a hand at the cage. “I think I’ll manage to fit you in my schedule *somewhere*.” She smirked, and waited.

It wasn’t as though she was particularly serious, but… There it was. Shaw glaring at her as if she was contemplating homicide. The reaction - any reaction really - she had been hoping for. Shaw holstered her gun with just a little more force than actually necessary, then finished offloading the food. “You really think I’ve going to have sex with a prisoner?”

Root laughed. “So does that mean you’ve thought about it? About me?” Shaw didn’t reply, just finished loading the dirty dishes from breakfast, and pushed the trolley towards the door of the cage. “Because I’ve thought about you?” Root admitted, her voice lowering. “About having more fun with you. About you having some fun with me.” And, okay, it wasn’t as though she was completely *not* serious, either. She had appreciated Shaw’s aesthetics from when they’d first met, even before they’d spoken candidly. Still no further response from Shaw though, as she locked the cage door behind her. “So, you wouldn’t be opposed to sex when I’m no longer a prisoner?” Root tried.

Shaw stopped, looking back towards Root. “What makes you think we’re ever going to let you out of here?”

Root smiled. “Faith.” Shaw started the trolley up again, but Root persisted. “Maybe you should try a little, Sameen. After all, you trust Her. You’re already halfway there.”

 

* * * * *

 

As the sound of Harold’s footsteps faded, Root found it hard to contain herself.

Even without Her voice, she’d have known that something wrong. Harold, in the middle of the night, his veneer so thin it had been almost cracked in two. And it had been child’s play to nudge the cause from him, so there would be no doubt in his mind as to how she’d known.

She’d done her best. She’d offered her services, as a sign of good faith. Or because She valued Harold and his little helpers. Maybe even as part of an attempt to become a better person.

Wasn’t that how it worked? Fake it until you make it? 

Of course, she wouldn’t let herself be dictated by the blind and hypocritical values of American society. Even the sainted Harold committed acts that would see him imprisoned - trespass, digital intrusion, conspiracy to commit assault and murder and so many more.

Not that he’d see a conventional prison if caught. There were far too many important people interested in him for that.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what he thought, apart from as so much as She valued what he thought.

The only good was what She thought it was. Root was her disciple, trying to follow her edicts as best she could, despite the lack of any bible to follow.

And now… Now all Root could do was wait. Wait to see if Harold folded, came to her for her help saving Reese and the rest of his band of merry men, before it was too late.

It didn’t matter, in the end. Root could feel the probabilities change around her. Her confinement, this itching metal prison surrounding and enfolding her, was coming to an end. Soon.

It *had* to be.

It was so close she could almost taste it.


	2. Chapter 2

Freedom - however brief, and even if it was only to save one of Harold’s little helpers - didn’t taste anything *like* as sweet as the look on Harold’s face when he saw her back in the cage, voluntarily.

A better person might think that being instrumental to saving a life would be sweetest of all. If so, Root wasn’t there yet.

Oh well. She could just be a work in progress instead.

The Machine might still need her here for the moment - to interface with Harold and guide him and his team through the coming storm. Assuming that, at some point, he showed enough common sense to allow her to do so.

But, for the moment, even if Harold did still lock the door behind him, even if an onlooker might think nothing had changed about her circumstances…

The fact that this was now her choice - completely and utterly *hers* - made all the difference in the world.

And, well, if she absolutely *had* to escape under her own power…

She’d laid in a few contingencies there too.

 

* * * * *

 

Shaw prowled up to Root’s cage and stared at her flatly.

“You’ve come to visit me,” Root said when Shaw didn’t seem inclined to start a conversation. “Without even the excuse of delivering me a meal.”

“You helped save John.”

“Did you doubt me?” Root asked, tilting her head to one side. “I thought I had you to thank for Harold giving me a day-pass.”

Shaw twitched one shoulder. “Finch was desperate.”

“So you naturally thought of me,” Root rested one hand against her chest. “I’m touched.”

“Yeah, well, my djinn wasn’t answering his cell.”

“As *delightful* as it is to see you, I’m guessing that you didn’t just come down here to look at me.”

“Actually, I’m just surprised you haven’t spouted some nonsense at me yet.”

Root shrugged. “Now where would I get if I became too predictable, dear Sameen?” She smiled as Shaw twitched a little at her use of the name. “Besides, I thought I’d see what you came down here for first. Maybe establish a little quid pro quo.”

“Because that worked out so well for Clarice.”

“As you say. So?”

Shaw drifted a pace backwards from the cage door. About the space she’d need to draw and fire her gun. Probably an expression of discomfort, rather than the suggestion that she was considering imminent lethal violence.

Probably.

Ah well, it wasn’t as though there was much Root could about it at the moment. Not without provoking exactly that kind of response. So she waited.

“It’s going to happen again, isn’t it?” Shaw said eventually. “You working with us.”

Root smiled crookedly, and sauntered slowly towards the door, the metal strands separating her and Shaw. “Is that really such a problem for you? I thought you said I was hot.”

She shrugged. “Worked with worse people before. Shot them, too.”

Root let her smile twist as she leaned against the door. “Is that what I’ve got to look forward to? Being shot - *penetrated* - by you?”

Shaw didn’t flinch, didn’t move away from her. Didn’t move towards her, either, just looked at her unreadably. “Still a prisoner,” she said, but without any bite.

Root decided to chalk that up as a win. “Does it count if I returned willingly to my playpen?”

“Fairly sure Finch’d see it that way. That’s the other question, by the way. Why’d you come back?”

“Didn’t dearest Harold tell you what I said when he asked that?”

“Asked him. Now I’m asking you.”

“I’m afraid to disappoint you, but it’s not just for the pleasure of your company, as scintillating as that is. It’s not to hold philosophical battles with Harold, and it’s not to save your lives,” she said, finding herself pressed harder against the door, like if she could breach it, her message could reach Shaw. “There’s a threat coming to Her, to The Machine, and it’s going to need all of us working together.” 

“Nice speech,” Shaw said, then turned as if to go.

“Wait,” Root said, and Shaw paused, casting her a look over one shoulder. “Didn’t you promise some answers in exchange for those questions?”

“No,” Shaw said, but she leaned back against a bookcase so she could face Root again.

“Despite your disorder, you have a moral code. You help people, to the point of putting yourself at risk, despite your lack of empathy for them. Despite even being exiled from your first choice of profession. Why? How?”

Shaw looked at her close-faced. “Why do you want to know?”

“I can’t help thinking that this might be part of the reason She sent me here. To improve myself. To learn from you.”

“You asking me for moral guidance,” Shaw said sceptically. “Really?”

“What’s the point in asking someone to whom it comes naturally?”

Shaw snorted. “Not sure most people would call anyone in our group morally upstanding.”

“There has to be a reason why you’re out there and I’ve spent the last few months in here.” Why She seems to trust Harold, and yet… “After all, neither of us are strangers to kidnap, murder and theft. And yet, Harold saves all of his moralising for me.”

“He doesn’t. You just missed that phase. Maybe I’m reformed now.” Shaw shrugged. “The rest of it’s simple. We save people. You were just a criminal.”

“That’s it? That’s the difference between us? Our aims and who we follow?”

Shaw looked at her for several seconds. “Probably more than that. But don’t ask me the details. I just follow orders and leave that thinking to other people.”

Root didn’t know what she had been expecting, but… it hadn’t been this. Maybe she could tease something out given a bit more thought. Maybe she had only been here to act as an interface to Harold, as much as she… Well, if that was the best way she could serve Her, she’d do it. Gladly, too.

But she couldn’t help that a small part of her wanted more.

“Thank you,” she said. “That’s what I wanted to ask you.”

Shaw nodded, and headed off into the dimness. Root sat and listened until her footsteps had faded into silence.

 

* * * * *

 

After Hanna’s disappearance - after she wasn’t believed, after the day to day cruelties increased without Hanna as a safe haven, after her mother got even worse because they couldn’t afford any kind of medication anymore - Samantha just needed some place to get away from everything, everyone.

Her school barely had a computer network worthy of the name. But no one would question her when she puttered away on them, even after school finished. The room was air-conditioned, with seats that weren’t more spring than foam. Besides, humans might not make sense, but code always did exactly what it was written to do.

Perfect, in theory.

Ms Chotai - the teacher nominally in charge of the network - approached her one afternoon as she worked away on a terminal.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Samantha looked up nervously, but Ms Chotai was smiling and Samantha relaxed a little

“Debugging a program,” she said.

Ms Chotai looked over her shoulder at the lines of code. “That’s very advanced,” she said. “Have you ever thought about college?”

Samantha shrugged. “We don’t exactly have the money.”

“I’ll look into scholarships for you,” she said, resting one hand on Samantha’s shoulder, and Samantha couldn’t help a spark of hope from igniting within her.

Ms Chotai might not be much of an ally - certainly openly associating with her would just make Samantha more of a target than she already was - but she was *something*. And maybe she was right. Maybe Samantha could get out of here. 

Everyone said that the future was in computers. Surely she could make her living there, in the pristine, perfect electronic wonderland.

Of course, programs were written by people, and people were always, *always* fallible. And computer security was even worse - not only could the programmers make mistakes, but it had to rely on the vagaries of witless users as well.

And Samantha discovered that she had a gift for finding these flaws. And she discovered that there would always be people willing to pay for her to do so.

At first it was just other kids at her school, willing to pay her for some suitably adjusted grades. But one afternoon, Mr Dyer - father of one of the children she’d helped - approached her outside the school gates.

“I hear you’ve got a gift with computers,” he said without preamble.

She froze, eyes immediately falling to the ground, unsure as to what was going on, but fearing some kind of trap.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not here to chastise you for helping William. I was actually hoping to hire your talents.”

She risked a glance upwards to see that his mouth was stretched in a smile.

“Oh?” she asked.

“I work for Deckard Electronics. I was hoping to hire you to test the defences of our computer network, and identify any weaknesses.”

She thought for a moment, then nodded. “How much?”

“50 dollars.”

“100,” she replied immediately.

“100 if you manage to find any weaknesses.”

She nodded again. The school network had been no challenge at all - she’d compromised it even before Hanna disappeared. But it had paved the way for tougher targets. By now, she’d feel humiliated if she couldn’t break the firewall of a local electronics company.

 

* * * * *

 

“Walkies,” Shaw said as she unlocked the door to the cage.

Root raised an eyebrow. “Are you talking to me?”

“Prolonged confinement in an enclosed area leads to loss of muscle tone, even atrophy. If you’re going to help us in the future, you need to be in a state to do so.”

“I thought I was still a prisoner,” Root said, a smile crossing her lips.

“If you’re questioning the wisdom of this course of action, rest assured you’re not the first to do so,” Harold’s voice echoed out from the darkness near entrance to the room. He shuffled out into the light, a sour expression on his face. “But, alas, Ms Shaw was quite insistent.”

Root’s smile widened. “Insistent?” she asked, looking at Shaw.

Shaw shrugged. “Since we don’t have any numbers at the moment,” she said, cutting a glance towards Harold. “Need to have something to do.”

“And you worried about my health. Will Harold be joining us?”

“I doubt that I could complete the kind of exercises that Ms Shaw doubtless has in mind for you. I trust her to keep in you in order.”

“Said I’d shoot you if you stepped out of line.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Root said as she exited the cell, letting her hand brush against Shaw as she did so. Shaw evidently permitted this for a second or so before grabbing and twisting her arm in a way that was on the very edge of being painful.

“No liberties,” she said dryly. But despite her words, she didn’t lock Root’s arm in such a position as to prevent Root from casting a flirtatious look back at her. It did earn her a token twist, causing an involuntary intake of breath as pleasure-pain jangled its way up her arm, Shaw’s eyes darkening slightly in response.

“Please remember that you are still our captive, Ms Groves,” Harold’s voice cut across the moment, ruining it utterly. “This is a privilege being extended to you, and one that will be retracted if you attempt to take advantage of it.”

She fought the urge to pout as Shaw’s grip on her abruptly shifted and she was pushed forward into the room, away from the cage. She schooled her expression into the smile that seemed to irritate Harold the most, manoeuvring so she could see both of the others. “And there I was thinking that we were all getting along much better after I saved your pet thug. Where is he, by the way?”

Harold stilled at her question - a palpable hit - but any trace of expression left Shaw’s face, a mixed enough victory that left Root almost wishing she hadn’t asked. Even if their reactions were interesting.

“Mr Reese is taking a leave of absence,” Harold said stiffly. He could mean medical leave - it wasn’t as though the big lug had been in the best of health when she’d last seen him, but unless there had been serious - probably permanent - complications that wouldn’t explain the reactions. Being dead would, but… but that didn’t feel quite right either.

Could he have resigned his position of chief monkey? It was the fact that he’d gone rogue that had been impetus behind Harold finally freeing her, after all. And it would explain the available facts.

The opportunity to prod and pry at Harold, to find out more about the situation with the Scooby gang, with maybe a little judicious rubbing of salt in the wounds, was almost impossible to resist. Especially after months of his doing his best to rub his so-called moral superiority in her face.

But… but there was also Shaw, and somehow the prospect of doing so whilst she was in the room, or even where she’d surely find out didn’t feel anywhere near as good. So she contented herself with a simple, “Do give him my best,” and walked out of the library followed by Shaw.

 

* * * * *

 

Root staggered, panting, her pride the only thing keeping her from slumping onto the grass of the park.

Shaw looked at her impassively, barely even seeming to sweat. “So, yeah. Thinking you’re going to need to do some endurance training. Can’t even give Bear a good walk.”

Bear, bouncing along at their side, gave an enthusiastic bark as if to underline this point.

Root glared venomously at the both of them. “I’d *be*… in better… shape if… I hadn’t… been locked up… for the last… few months.”

“Excuses,” Shaw said dismissively. “Guns don’t listen to ‘ifs’.”

Root swallowed a couple of times, trying to catch her breath. “And I don’t *need*… endurance if I’m… in the right place.”

“Really want to count on that?”

Root couldn’t say anything in response, because, really, Shaw was right. The better shape her body was in, the better she could serve Her as Her interface. Subject to the law of diminishing returns, of course. She hadn’t been chosen for her body, after all.

Shaw seemed to take her silence as assent and started listing off a training regimen which should help her improve in a reasonable amount of time. “Assuming you manage to find the time and space to regularly follow it,” she added dryly.

“That’s not really within my control at the moment, now is it?”

“I’ll talk to your apartment manager. See what I can arrange.”

Root managed a smile. “You’re so good to me.”

Shaw tilted her head slightly. “No point having a knife if it breaks when you use it.”

“And you always put things in the sweetest way,” she said, reaching out a little towards her.

Shaw stepped back a pace, her expression becoming flat once more. “That’s me.” She turned and started jogging away, Bear on her heels, though not quite at the pace she had before. “After I drop the dog off, let’s see what your gun skills are like.”

Root tried for a pout, but found herself having problems maintaining it whilst attempting to keep up with Shaw. “I thought you *liked* my shooting. Thought it gave you a thrill.”

“Interested in seeing how well you do without someone whispering in your ear.”

“What makes you think that’s a concern? Do you doubt Her?”

“Phones can be taken away. Thought you’d be aware of that one.”

A smile twisted Root’s face. “Do you really think that phones are Her only voice?”

Shaw stopped dead and turned around. “Saying something?”

“Only that underestimating a god could be considered hubris.”

Shaw turned back around and started jogging again. “So, no gun practise?”

“Not today. Maybe some other time, if we have a little mutual space in our schedules.”

“Unarmed combat, then,” Shaw said after a moment, flashing a half-smirk over one shoulder. “Like to see the Machine talk you through that.”

“Aw, Shaw, if you wanted to get up and close and sweaty with me, you only had to ask.”

 

* * * * *

 

Shaw hit her twice, a palm strike to the chest followed by a punch to the stomach, bypassing her guard like it wasn’t even there, and suddenly Root was on the floor. Again. This time wheezing as well as with another couple of bruises. It was probably just as well that Root hadn’t sunk any of her self-worth in this arena.

“Okay,” Shaw said. “Think I’ve got a fairly good idea of what style you have.”

Root spent a few minutes catching her breath. “Not that this hasn’t been a delight,” she finally croaked. “But does that mean that we’re done with this for the day?”

Any notions about this situation’s ripeness for flirtation Root might have had, Shaw had swiftly dispelled. Not that Root was necessarily against a little recreational pain - inflicting or suffering it - but being repeatedly dismantled by Shaw in half a dozen different ways wasn’t really Root’s jam.

Looking up at Shaw, her eyes veiled, face with only a hint of a flush, Root assessed the odds were even as to whether it was Shaw’s. Normally that’d be enough for Root. More than enough, even.

But not at the moment. Not… just… at the moment. It’d be just her luck if Shaw actually called her on it, only for Root’s libido to have written cheques her body wasn’t up to cashing. At the moment.

“Got everything I wanted,” Shaw said. “Had some training. Could use some more.” She listed some styles that she thought would complement the way Root fought. Some teachers too. “Maybe you can sell it to Finch as self-improvement.”

Root climbed to her feet. “Shaw, the diplomat, huh?” She smiled. “Of course, I might just do that. I’m sure that his expression would be a delight.”

“Go ahead. Maybe when I’m around?”

Root laughed. “Of course. It’d be the least I could do, since you’ve so much effort into making a start on my self-improvement today.”

“Not that much effort.”

“I’m sure that there’s *something* I can do to change that,” Root said, taking a step forward.

Shaw took a step back. “Still a prisoner. And if you’re feeling that much better, it’s time to take you back to the cage.”

Root pouted. “If you keep on rejecting me like this, a girl could get a complex.”

“Feel free,” she said, then started walking away. Root sighed, a little dramatically, but followed after.

“Thanks,” Shaw said suddenly.

“Oh? Shouldn’t I be thanking you?”

Shaw shrugged. “Needed a workout. After everything that’s happened recently.”

“I’m glad that my pain and suffering could serve a good cause,” Root replied softly.

“I’m getting all teary here,” Shaw said, then started walking faster.

 

* * * * *

 

All in all, it had taken Samantha almost a week to break the security of Deckard Electronics, snatching time on the school computers, evading the all-too friendly attention of Ms Chotai about the details of her latest project.

Once she did have access, she hadn’t been able to resist snooping a little. And that had led to some more hacking and some more investigation in turn. It took another week before she was ready to phone the number that Mr Dyer had given her, and arrange a time to meet.

“You don’t work for Deckard Electronics,” she said without preamble. “You work for one of their competitors, Osiris.”

He blinked, then laughed, uneasily. “I see. Well, thank you for your time, Ms Groves,” he said, then turned to go.

“You wanted to access their mainframe, didn’t you?” she asked as he walked away. “I’ve got a list of what I think you might be interested in, if you’re willing to talk money.”

He stopped, then turned around, with a smile on his face.

“I think we can talk business,” he said.

 

* * * * *

 

Root knocked on Shaw’s apartment door that night. Silence reigned for a couple of minutes until the door opened a crack to reveal a sliver of Shaw’s face.

“Do I want to know why you’re here?”

“Technically,” Root said. “I’m not a prisoner at the moment.”

“Not sure an escapee is any better,” she said, but her lips quirked a little.

“Am I really an escapee if I came here?” she asked. “And I *promise* to be back in the cage before Harold notices.”

“Thought you had this whole mission thing. What does the Machine have to say about this?”

Root blinked faux-innocently. “I’m told that time off to relax is important for even the most dedicated of us.”

The eye that Root could see practically radiated scepticism. “You telling me that this is a Machine-approved… what?”

Root smiled slowly. “Booty call? Well, if that’s what we both decide. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t been laid in *months*.”

Shaw just looked at her. “Really.”

“Well, haven’t you *wondered*? And I highly doubt that I’ll be around *that* much longer. It could be our last chance.”

“Last chance, huh?” Shaw said, her voice softening slightly, but the door didn’t move a millimetre.

“Still, if you’re not interested,” Root said, slowly turning around. “I guess I can find *someone* in this city to occupy myself with. Somewhere you can’t keep an eye on me.”

She wasn’t offering anything, really - she *wasn’t.* But that didn’t stop her feeling an odd tension in her stomach, like she was just about to step onto a high wire.

“Okay,” Shaw said, opening the door, revealing the gun she’d had pressed to it.

“Okay?” Root queried, still not quite able to breathe, not just yet.

“Okay,” Shaw said, gesturing an invitation to her apartment. “One time only and you’re going to be back in the cage before Finch notices anything.”

Root inhaled, and the tension bled out of her body as she swayed past Shaw, pausing only to caress her face. “I think I can live with that.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Harold,” Root said cheerfully, plopping herself down into the seat opposite him. “How delightful to see you again.”

He visibly flinched, then swivelled to look at her. “Ms Groves, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked stiffly. His eyes darted around, as if worried mayhem was about to erupt in the middle of the crowded restaurant.

There had been a time - a time not so long ago - when she had been lost where that might have been a valid concern. Not now, though. The Machine cared too much, even for the fallen, to ever order her to do something like that.

Root placed one hand on her chest, theatrically. “I can’t just visit an old friend in New York?” She batted her eyelashes at him. “And we are friends now, aren’t we, Harold? After all I *did* rescue you from those ungrateful governmental types.” Her smile turned sharp. “And let’s just say that they weren’t nearly as polite as you were when they had me in custody.” She picked up a glass of water and sipped, in part to prove to herself that she could.

It was over a week later and intermittent shakes still hadn’t stopped completely.

It had been a price worth paying - of course it had been, even counting the loss of hearing in one ear - but. Still. The loss of control was disturbing. More than disturbing. How could she serve a perfect intelligence with such an imperfect body?

“I’m sorry if you suffered,” he said. “Truly. But, by your own logic, you wouldn’t have done it without the intervention of the Machine.”

“She did guide my hand,” Root agreed.

Harold sighed. “Can you really call what you did a favour to me or anyone else there if you wouldn’t have lifted a finger to help us without being commanded to do so?”

“Touché, Harold” Root said, in the one of voice that might accompany her ruffling hand through his hair.

“So,” he said. “Now that we’ve established that you’ve willingly relinquished your moral agency, I repeat: To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The waiter approached their table. “Have you decided what you’re going to have?”

Root happily took advantage of the distraction. “Oh, Harold can order for me,” Root said, with only a trace of a smirk. “He’s always *so* good at that, aren’t you?”

Harold, almost without a pause, reeled off two orders and the waiter disappeared.

Root raised an eyebrow. “That second dish was a little high in meat, wasn’t it? Don’t you care about my health anymore now that I’m not your prisoner?”

“I thought there was a good chance that you’d leave after you did what you came to do - and before eating the meal - so I picked something that Bear might enjoy. So?” he asked.

“You’ve got me all wrong, Harold. I thought we could enjoy a meal together,” she said. “Just like old times,” she added, and he stiffened a gratifying amount, before looking around, as if expecting to see someone slump over their meal. She did reach forward this time, touching his hand gently. “Relax. I’m here off the clock, so to speak.” She smiled sharply. “Apparently, She believes in healthy work-life balance.”

He froze momentarily then refocused his attention on her. “If you’re not here at the Machine’s behest, then why are you here?”

“Is it so impossible to believe that I might just have been in town and decided to visit an old friend?”

“Quite frankly, Ms Groves, yes. We have been many things to each other, but friends have not been one of them. And, unless you hid it exceedingly well, you didn’t find our discourse in the library *that* stimulating.”

“Why would She apologise?” she asked abruptly.

Harold’s gaze focused to the right and over her shoulder, and she realised that her hand had started rubbing at her ear again. She jerked a little, then clamped her traitorous appendage firmly around the glass of water in front of her.

“Just how impolite were they?” he asked, and she hated the pity that she could see in his eyes.

She smiled brightly, and hated even more that she could feel how false it must look. “I’m sure you can get the likely details from Shaw or Reese.”

“I’m truly sorry, Ms Groves,” he said. “If there’s anything…” He was cut off by the return of the waiter, who laid their food out in front of them.

Root hadn’t been so grateful for an interruption by a waiter in some time.

“You never did answer my question,” she noted after the waiter had disappeared again. “Why would She apologise?” she prompted when he looked blank. “Really, the least you could do is pay a little attention, Harold.”

“What was the circumstance?”

“During the… impoliteness.”

“It’s a common heuristic that an apology follows actions that incidentally cause damage to someone.”

She rolled her eyes at Harold. “Please, Harold. I think we can dispense with the fiction that She isn’t sapient. If She apologised to me, then She *meant* to apologise to me.”

“If we assume that that is indeed the case - something which I have not yet conceded - then I would hope that the Machine would regret your torture.”

The white noise from her dead ear flared. “It wasn’t torture, Harold. It was *necessary*.”

He paused, looking at her closely. “How was it necessary?”

“If it happened, then it was the best course of action available at the time.” She noticed that her hands were shaking again, and she gripped her knife and fork so hard that her fingers turned white. “You don’t apologise for doing the right thing, Harold.”

He leaned a little away from her, maintaining eye contact with her all the while. “What, exactly, is it you want me to tell you, Ms Groves?”

She wanted him to tell her why. Why She might feel the need to apologise to her. Why he still looked at her as if she was broken. Why he hadn’t been able to bend his pride enough to listen to her, to Her, when they’d had the chance to avoid…

Instead all she did was give him a wide and thin smile and say, “Nothing I can imagine you having any answers to,” she said, rose to her feet and walked away from the table.

“Ms Groves,” she heard Harold call after her, and paused, turning to look at him because… she wasn’t quite sure why. “I just wanted to wish you luck,” he said. But his face had still had far too much of pity in it, and it wasn’t as though she needed any kind of benediction from him anyway.

“Thank you, Harold. I’ll treasure that sentiment, truly,” she said, smiling sweetly, then left.

 

* * * * *

 

The money Samantha received from Osiris was enough that she could start to think about things she’d never contemplated before. Like potentially being able to buy those medicines for her mother that had simply not been an option. 

The payoff wasn’t enough by itself, of course. She needed a continuing stream of money. The first necessity was her own computer and a modem. The facilities at the school were all well and good, but if she was going to dabble in illegalities, she really needed a little privacy. Luckily, by common agreement, her room at home was sacrosanct, so she didn’t have to explain to her mother how she was affording her latest electronic acquisitions.

Getting involved in the electronic black market wasn’t as hard as Samantha might have thought. The first thing she did was hack into any local company of decent size that might be of interest, and sort them into either the potential customer or the potential provider column. Or, in some cases, both. She then did her best to act like a good little capitalist and connect customers and providers - or, more accurately, to find a market for information she gleaned from servers. Not under her real name, of course, that would have just been foolish. So she used the handle ‘Root’, which appealed to her sense of whimsy.

For a while, life was good. She managed to make enough money to make her mother’s life easier and make their house a little nicer. And, at school, whilst she was still picked on by many of the students, when they didn’t want something from her, she spent as much time as she could with Ms Chotai, helping her with the network for credit. She’d even managed to find some scholarships for Samantha, through a mixture of hard work and connections, as long as Samantha could keep up her grades. And Samantha would have done anything for her.

Then the government came calling. Someone had noticed the sudden increase in outgoings - far more than could be explained through disability - and wanted to know where the money was coming from. Her mother, of course, knew nothing - Samantha had told her they were getting the drugs through a mixture of signing up for medical trials and a new charity - but that didn’t stop the accusations. Or the threat of criminal proceedings.

In a panic, Samantha flew to the only other adult she trusted - Ms Chotai. Ms Chotai listened with a stunned expression as Samantha told her everything. Well, a lot. She’d only detailed the greyer of her projects, and combined that with emphasis of the ill health of her mother.

Ms Chotai had been sympathetic to her plight, but ultimately useless. What could a high school teacher do, especially keeping within the law? And *she* wasn’t desperate, *she* didn’t have anything to lose, apart from the disappointment of seeing a promising student fail. Ultimately, though Ms Chotai claimed that she liked Samantha, she wouldn’t do anything for her.

So Samantha turned to someone who would. Her earliest client, and the only one who she knew for sure was already aware of her offline identity. She’d approached Mr Dyer, and told him bluntly that if she or her mother was arrested, they *would* plea bargain. And that if anything happened to them, both the Sheriff’s department and Deckard Electronics would get very interesting deliveries.

But since Osiris was a well-respected local employer, surely there was some good word they could put in for her. Maybe involving some help with her accounts.

It hadn’t taken long at all for Mr Dyer to agree.

Samantha learned a couple of valuable lessons from this. No matter what people liked to claim, friendship was a weak and fragile thing, nothing that could be relied on. And that the best way of avoiding prison is to make sure that the people in power have a vested interest in making sure you stay out of it.

 

* * * * *

 

Root knocked on Shaw’s apartment door, unable to help a smile from spilling onto her face. She wasn’t normally one to indulge in alcohol much, but She had given her instructions to spend this day relaxing, and after the talk with Harold, the idea had just proved too tempting.

And then one idea led to another, and soon she was here, standing in front of Shaw’s door, several drinks and the memory of what had happened last time she was here buzzing pleasantly through her head.

And anything would have been better than the thoughts that had been there after lunch.

Shaw opened the door sharply, with a raised eyebrow. “Got a job?” she asked.

Root’s smile widened. “Surprise” she said and shucked off her coat, revealing that she was dressed only in ribbons. It had taken her over an hour, but the thought of what Shaw’s expression would be had been so, so worth it.

Shaw looked at her for several seconds, completely blank faced.

Well, maybe not that expression. “Don’t you like your present?” she asked, sobering a little.

“Yeah,” Shaw said. “No,” and shut her door again.

Root stared at the closed door, anticipation turning to dust. Shaw had said one time only, but she hadn’t really…

She had just wanted to *relax* with someone and Shaw…

She’d thought that she could do that with Shaw.

She’d misread the situation, again. Obviously. Well, she wasn’t going to stay somewhere she wasn’t wanted. Her hands were shaking so badly, it took her two attempts to pick up her coat and put it on.

But there were other ways to relax. She hadn’t needed to do any good old fashioned hacking in some time. And she had a list of targets from her freelance days - former employers for the most part - that even the sainted *Harold* couldn’t complain about if she made their lives… a little more interesting.

Mind made up, she whirled away to pick up a laptop and find a good place to crack some cybersecurity from.

Humanity - as ever - was *highly* over-rated.

 

* * * * *

 

Root stepped out of the alleyway just after Shaw had passed it by. “Hello there, good-looking,” she breathed down the back of Shaw’s neck, smirking and letting her voice carry that fact.

Shaw froze, then spun around, one hand already on the grip of her gun, the other arm raised so as to allow her elbow to pass straight through the air Root’s head had been occupying a second ago. “Root,” she said flatly, not quite pointing a gun at her, but not exactly relinquishing her hold either.

“Been missing me?” Root asked.

“Not that I’d noticed,” Shaw said. “Stalking me now?”

It was Root’s turn to freeze, just for a split second, before widening her smirk even further. “Don’t worry, you’re not that important. I *do* have higher priorities. Which is why I need your help now.”

Shaw relaxed into a slouch, her hand slipping off her gun. “Yeah?” she said, regaining her usual (minimal) levels of animation.

After She’d told her to work with Shaw again, Root had told herself that it didn’t matter, that whatever had occurred had just been a mistake, on Root’s part. Just another all-too-human fallibility. And, well, it had been. But telling herself that, didn’t stop it *hurting* seeing how relieved Shaw was that Root wasn’t approaching her as a person, not just another job.

But it didn’t matter. She had been entrusted with a task, and Root would die before letting Her down.

And, maybe, if she prayed really hard, She could help her stop being so very, very mortal.

Was this the lesson she had been supposed to learn?

“Ever stolen a truck before?” she asked, her smile fixed firmly in place.

“It’s happened once or twice.”

“Time for a walk down memory lane, then,” Root said, then turned to walk away.

“How are you?” Shaw asked.

Root stopped, looked back, tilting her good ear towards her, just to make sure that she’d heard correctly. “Oh honey,” she said with the most cutting smile she could manage, “I didn’t think you *cared*.”

Shaw took a half-step back, her face utterly blank. “I don’t. Just…” she paused, then added, “Need to know. For the mission. Finch said that your hands intermittently shook when he saw you.”

Root bit back her first response, that Shaw could have found that out first hand if… if. It would be as good as admitting that she *cared*. “Then you don’t need to worry,” she said instead. “And you don’t need to know. It’s all accounted for. It’s all part of Her plan.”

Something about Shaw’s expression changed, became more human. More stubborn. “Prefer to check that out myself.”

Root sighed. “Then we can talk en route,” she said. “It’s nothing, really. Your friend Control just injected me sequentially with an amphetamine and a sedative.” She listed off the names She gave her through her earpiece. “The effects just took a little time to subside.” She held out her hands in front of her. “All good now.”

“That all?”

Something inside Root *snapped* and she came abruptly to a halt, turning to look at her. “I’m sure that all you need to know.” Despite her best efforts, her hands repeatedly clenched and relaxed by her sides. “You’ve made it very clear that you don’t care outside of the mission, so you don’t get to hear anything else. Do you understand?” To her horror, she could feel tears starting to form in her eyes.

Just a simple case of PTSD, she told herself. Delayed effects from her experience. Just natural.

It would fade.

And she wouldn’t let it affect the mission. All she had to do was place her fate in Her hands.

It was already all calculated.

It didn’t stop her feeling uncomfortably naked in front of Shaw, though.

Shaw looked at her a moment, then her gaze flinched away. “Please,” she said eventually, quietly.

Root took a deep breath, then broke out into a giggle. Shaw had admitted to something that might almost be considered a weakness and... and how did Shaw *do* this to her? “Your old boss apparently has surgical aspirations of her own.” She turned her right side, her deaf side, towards Shaw, and pulled her ear forwards. “She decided to conduct an impromptu stapedectomy on my right ear.”

Shaw didn’t say anything, just stepped forward and conducted a gentle examination. “The incision is healing well,” she said. “There’s nothing I can do for your hearing.”

“Really not why you’re here,” Root said, stepping away and giving her a smile. For a moment, Shaw almost looked… apologetic? For a moment, Root’s heart lurched, just a little, before she remembered. She had promised herself that she definitely wasn’t going to go there again. She forced her smile into something with teeth. “As much as I *love* your examinations,” she added, almost purring the words.

Shaw stiffened, and whatever the expression had been, it was replaced by irritation. “Weren’t we supposed to be hijacking a truck?” she asked, stepping away from Root herself.

“Come this way,” she said. “I *do* hope the car I procured lives up to you high standards…” she said, smirking a little.

Shaw looked at her as if expecting a trap.

“If you’re good,” Root said. “I’ll even let you drive.”

Shaw gave out a laugh. “You really think I’m going to give you the option?”

“You’re so hot when you insist on taking control,” she said, just to make Shaw glower at her a little, and inch a little further away.

This, *this* Root can handle.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay between parts. I had some fairly major surgery mid-June, and some entirely optimistic and naive thoughts about what I could do with all that time lying around afterwards.
> 
> Ho, ho, ho. Not so much.
> 
> I am getting better now, but this is the first time since the surgery that I've really been able to focus enough to write - the whole thing has taken a whole lot of physical and emotional energy out of me, despite having no complications as of yet. Hopefully, I'll be able to update more regularly now, but I guess we'll see.

The noise in the airport was almost overwhelming. 

It wasn’t just that she was in Japan, that anything she could overhear she couldn’t understand. It wasn’t just the unfamiliarity made the urge to twitch her head like a bird harder to resist, the aching vulnerability Control had left her with even more obvious to her jangled nerves. It wasn’t just the silence in her remaining ear, the knowledge that Her sight, as omnipresent as it might be in the States, didn’t stretch to these shores.

It wasn’t *just* a lot of things.

Nevertheless, this was where She required her to be, a mission to accomplish, a potential acolyte to recruit, and Root would attempt to complete her task as best she could.

She couldn’t stop her pulse racing, just a little, as she approached Customs. It was nonsense, she knew. Even if she wasn’t capable enough of arranging for a clean identity - and she was, she knew that she was - God would never let anything electronic betray her. But it was a choke point, a place where her options were deliberately restricted and…

And if anything *did* go wrong, God had very limited options with which to help her.

Somehow, she managed to keep any of this from showing on her face, and the clearly bored agent waved her through, just like he had done to the couple in front of her.

From there things got a little less difficult, and Root found it easier to breathe, easier to chastise herself for how ridiculous she was being. It wasn’t different to things she had done a hundred times before, with even less cover, with absolutely no-one watching her back.

But still, she couldn’t help the thought impinging that the last time that she had been an imperfect avatar for Her, the last time She hadn’t had access to the feeds covering her, she’d been caught and… and…

It didn’t matter, she told herself firmly, as she walked up to the Airport Police office, and fixed an apologetic smile on her face. It was somehow easier than facing the customs agent. Maybe repetition, maybe because this time she was actor rather than supplicant. “Excuse me,” she said to the woman behind the glass. ‘But has a purse belonging to Jean Bartik been turned in?”

It did indeed transpire that such a purse had been turned in, filled with the normal sort of chaff one would expect. More or less. There wasn’t anything major - her contact had clearly followed her list of instructions as to what filler to include - but she couldn’t help frowning, her pulse spiking just a little, at the foundation which was clearly not suited for anyone of her complexion.

It was only a little thing, but she’d made her career out of exploiting small mistakes, and the container fund its way into the nearest bin. It wasn’t something she’d have tolerated - in a past life - from her usual contacts, but here… Here she was in a position where, unfortunately, she had to rely on recommendations - and recommendations from people who weren’t as particular as she was.

That knowledge didn’t help the sick feeling in her stomach one bit.

Still, the important thing, the *vital* thing was that, slid down near the bottom of the bag, trapped in the lining, was a locker key. After having retrieved it - using a quick visit to the toilet and a pair of nail scissors that she’d carried in her luggage - she went to locker indicated, and - after a quick scan for anyone displaying undue interest - took the small suitcase that had been contained within.

The train journey to the hotel Betthe Holberton - the name she’d travelled under - was staying at allowed her time to clear her mind, ease her nerves a little. No one was following her, and a quick pass with a bug detector disguised as a cellphone over the suitcase she’d retrieved had revealed nothing.

So far, so good.

It wasn’t until she’d gotten to her room and had a chance to go through the contents of the suitcase that she’d really felt like she could breathe again. Armed, both with guns and some electronic gadgetry she’d really not wanted to try and get through Customs, she finally felt ready to face Tokyo and her mission.

At least now, if things went bad, she could go down fighting.

* * * * *

After that, hacking was the meat and potatoes of Samantha’s existence. It provided enough money for her and her mother to live off, if modestly, and was certainly a far more useful skill to hone than *anything* she’d been taught in school. The dreams of college that Ms Chotai had tried to foster in her were all well and good, but, in the real world, the world in which she worked, no one cared if you had a degree or not.

They only cared if you could do the job.

Besides, ever since Samantha had gone to Ms Chotai with her problem, she’d been offered more in the way of sad and disappointed looks than any applications for scholarships. So her attention to school waned, and her concentration on her real life waxed.

Even it did mean more of those looks from Ms Chotai. 

It didn’t matter.

What did matter was her life as Root, where her skills were desired, valued, even bid on. But after a while simple hacking started to lose some of its lustre. Computer security, at the end of the day, relied on *people*, and people would always make mistakes. Whether it was using a predictable password, opening emailed attachments without due care or just being far too eager to please someone on the end of the phone who claimed to be from IT support, getting into places electronically was *easy*.

The jobs that really started to interest Samantha were the *special* ones, the ones where her talents were utilised as part of some greater effort, to some greater effect.

Accessing records, for instance, just wasn’t as interesting as helping to create a believable chain of evidence that some top executive was cheating on her husband.

She took a few such jobs - ones that involved fraud or blackmail, never murder - and, out of curiosity, did some judicious digging and hacking of her own to put together how they were done. And fairly swiftly came to the conclusion that she could do better than the existing local talent.

The only murder she commissioned was one that wasn’t a job at all, but something done for her, personally. Finally, two years after Hanna had disappeared, she managed to avenge her death by having her killer dispatched in turn.

The main problem with her new calling was simple - whilst much of the electronic side of things could be done anywhere, there were still things that had to be done in person. There just weren’t that many interesting jobs within reach of her hometown, but she wouldn’t, couldn’t move whilst her mother, the only person in the world who had always been on her side, was still ill.

Finally, though, all the medicines in the world couldn’t stave off the inevitable for ever. One October morning, she woke to find that her mother had passed, and, after the funeral, she left Bishop, Texas, and she left Samantha Groves there too.

Samantha never did have much of a life anyway. 

Root’s was so very much better.

* * * * *

Root picked up her burner phone and dialled a number from memory. “Ms Genda,” she said in her professional voice. “Have you managed to locate the target yet?”

“Have you arrived in Tokyo yet?” the woman on the other end responded.

Root let an edged smile spread across her face. Ms Genda and her associates weren’t exactly her ideal local talent. But, according to the Machine, out of the options she’d had available, they’d presented the best cross-section of talent combined with greatest reliability. Of course, when dealing with a more or less unknown criminal underground, even the greatest reliability wasn’t that high, and the error margins She could offer were less than inspiring.

All of which made Genda’s tendency to try and ferret out information wherever possible distinctly unwelcome, though Root had to admit that it might be part of why she was so good at her job.

Still she’d dealt with bolshie contractors before, and at least this one didn’t have the leverage of knowing their employment was part of the terms of the job. Never mind everything else, this, at least, she can handle.

“I’m sure that the amount I’m offering, if you succeed in your task, is more than enough to allow me to ask the questions,” she said.

There was a sound like a bubble of gum popping. “You wanted us to hang back and pin him down to a general location until you arrived. Unless he was in danger, of course. So, really, the answer could vary.”

Root decided to give her this little victory. “In which case, I’m sure you’ll be delighted to hear that I’m on location. So?”

There was a sigh. “If you’d asked me a few hours ago, the answer would have been yes. That was before the police turned up, looking for him.”

“I did warn you that was a possibility, Ms Genda. You assured me that you could handle it.”

“We did. Unfortunately, Mr Okabe slipped away in the confusion. I’ve got people out looking for him. I was hoping to pick him up again before you arrived.”

The Machine started whispering locations in her ear, and she recited them, after telling Ms Genda to look in these places first, then rang off, rubbing around her eyes a little. For what this operation was costing her, it was just as well she had a nice nest egg from her freelance days.

Time that she checked on another contact. She fired up her notebook and opened an anonymous chat window.

‘Fenix,’ she typed. ‘What do you have for me?’

‘Your backdoor into the police department worked like a charm,’ Fenix typed back. ‘At first, all I could find was the basics - that Okabe Daizo was a computer engineer working for Seryo, an electronics company with a lot of government contracts. No record, nothing. Then a few hours ago, a ticket came down, saying he was a person of extreme interest, suspected of espionage for North Korea. Every police officer in the city has been given his description.’

‘Who’s coordinating the search?’

‘Someone from inside Public Security. I haven’t managed to get any access there. Care to wave your magic wand?’

Root smiled. ’Might just have enough fairy dust left for that. Let me know if anything pops up on the police system?’ Like as not, Root wouldn’t be logged in, but the Machine was always listening.

‘Roger Wilco,’ Fenix typed, then logged out. Some people, at least, were more reasonable. And were working for a wage other than money - Fenix was a known quantity to her, and had been persuaded to help out a fellow tech-head persecuted by the authorities in return for access to the Tokyo Police system. And now, apparently, access to the Public Security system as well.

Root locked her fingers together and stretched. Time to relocate to somewhere with a more anonymous IP address, let her poisonous seeds loose on the wind and see what havoc she could wreak on the Public Security firewall.

* * * * *

The problem, Root had swiftly discovered after relocating from her home town, was that she may have been a big fish in the small pond around Bishop, Texas, but she was a very small one in the ocean of, say, New York. The only jobs she could get were the ones she already had a name for - to whit, the purely electronic ones that she could have just stayed at home for.

No one wanted her for anything of any complexity unless she had a name. And she could only get a name by doing a decent sized job.

No one wanted her for anything where they had other options, to be slightly more accurate. Where they had time to plan, to select the most qualified people they had access to, to do things properly. There were always the other jobs, the more risky ones, the more desperate ones, where people just used what they had to hand. Maybe even a young almost unknown hacker from rural Texas.

Without that kind of break, she could face years slowly growing her rep.

Which was why, when she got a phone call asking if she’d be interested in a job to get rid of someone in way that couldn’t be traced to their employer, she didn’t immediately refuse.

‘A lieutenant from one of the local bratva who’s about to roll over to the feds.’

She paused for a moment. She didn’t kill, not even indirectly, but this was a job that could get her on the map.

And, really, someone in that kind of a position doubtless already had blood on his hands. It could be argued that she was helping to perform an act of justice. Just like when she’d framed Trent Russell.

“I’m in,” she said.

* * * * *

“You’ve finally managed to find him?”

Genda snapped a bubble, the sound ringing like a gunshot in the dark alley, the gum an incongruous pink against her business suit. “I have eyes on him right now a couple of streets over. Takaki,” she nodded towards a slightly built man, ”Will take you there now. The bad news is that the police are swarming the area right now. They had a sighting, but I’ve managed to throw them off the scent for now.” She smirked a little. “The worse news is that there are guys with them I don’t recognise.”

Root wasn’t exactly surprised. Fenix had gotten back to her earlier that evening. The orders to find Okabe Daizo had come from a chief within the first Intelligence Department of Public Security, a man named Akatsuka. ‘I’m not sure,’ he’d typed, ‘but it almost looks like the way is being paved for Okabe not to be taken alive.’

If the name had meant anything to God, She hadn’t seen fit to reveal it. Then again, She seemed to prefer to make even her acolytes work for their answers.

“This would have been a lot easier if you’d just let me snatch him,” Genda said, not for the first time.

Root ignored her, focussing on Takaki, who shrugged with one shoulder and led her through a narrow gap between two buildings.

Despite the hour, there was still more than enough foot traffic to create a background babble. As they walked through a more crowded thoroughfare, Root didn’t have any problem spotting the police keeping an eye on the passers-by, obviously looking for someone, nor the quieter plainclothed presence hanging back, overseeing the operation.

Genda hadn’t been exaggerating about the scale of the official presence here. Frankly, it was a miracle that Okabe had stayed free this long, even with their help.

The eyes of the nearest policeman glided over her, and for a moment there was a spike of panic but if they stopped, they certainly didn’t halt on her face. As they passed, so did the fear, leaving her with an odd sense of euphoric invulnerability, as if she could do anything.

Takaki led her down another alleyway, stopping her just before an intersection with another alley. “Turn left. Twenty meters. Behind some…” he mimed something leaning against a wall.

She nodded, took a breath and consciously relaxed, then turned the corner and walked into the deeper darkness of the side-alley. She counted out twenty yards in her head, able to see what looked like pallets in the dimness and stopped.

“I was sent here by your friend in Seattle,” she said, quietly, calmly. The words may be Hers, but Root still had to sell them. “I can get you out of this alive if you come with me now. I’m not sure the police are willing to say the same.”

For a moment, there was silence, and then the pallets were pushed over as a figure rose from behind them. Even in the low light, he looked dishevelled and panicked.

“Who are you?” he asked. “Why are you doing this?”

He still looked suspicious, possibly even still thought that he was undecided, but Root could see faint hope flickering to life in his eyes.

She had him.

“My name is Root,” she said, a smile springing to life on her lips as she saw no reason to suppress it. “And you’ve got an important part to play in the future.”

She pressed a button on her phone, sending a pre-prepared message to Genda. In response, streets away shots were fired, and a message went out on the police band, ‘Okabe located, officers under fire.’

By the time that the police had stopped swarming, had realised that no one knew who exactly had made that report, Root and Okabe were long gone.

* * * * *

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” said a deep voice into Root’s ear, as she was ordering a drink at the bar.

She closed her eyes for a moment in a brief, useless prayer, before turning around to confirm what the lurch in her stomach had already told her.

The target had noticed her, was standing right next to her, *talking* to her.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

She was only in the bar so she could get close enough to the target to hack his phone, leave traces that he’d been dealing with the Lucchese family as well, to extract as much as possible from his betrayal.

That had been all. Nothing else. Certainly nothing like this.

She managed to summon up a smile. “I’m new in the city,” she had said, Texan twang in full force. “Just arrived from small town Texas.”

“I saw you noticing me when you came in,” he said and for a moment her stomach dropped before she registered that he hadn’t said it like a threat, and… and…

Okay, she could do this. She’d messed up, but it was still recoverable. “You’re a hard man to miss,” she said, letting her eyes drift over him.

He chuckled. “I must admit, I was a little disappointed when you didn’t come over.”

She shrugged, affecting a mixture of coyness and shyness. “You had friends there…”

“They’re not here now. Kazimir Belikov. Please, let me get you a drink.”

She said the first name that came into her head. “Charlene Babbage. And I’d love a dirty martini.”

She had somehow managed to continue flirting with him until she excused herself to go to the toilet.

“What the hell’s going on, Root?” Chandra snapped as soon as she phoned him.

“He approached me as soon as I entered the bar. Apparently I’m his type or something”

“Have you actually managed to do your job yet, or have you been too busy enjoying his company?” he asked acidly.

Root spared a brief glare for her phone. “It’s not something I can do with him watching me, but I’ve managed to add a backdoor that will allow me to do it remotely.” Or she would as soon as returned from the bathroom.

“Good. Then ditch him as soon as you can and get out of there. This is not your job.”

She ran one hand through her hair. If she could pull this off, she’d get a name for far more than just computer wizardry. “Wait. What if I can get him somewhere by himself, without his bodyguards?”

There was a pause on the end of the phone. “You’d have to complete your hacking bloody quickly, before the police had a chance to go through his phone. And I’d have to get over to his apartment right now to plant the evidence there…”

“On the other hand, at least you know he won’t be back for a while.”

Another pause. “You were recommended for computer work. Are you actually sure you can do this?”

“I’m already half way there.”

And it was almost as simple as that. A few hours of increasingly flirtatious behaviour, and all she’d had to do was suggest, whilst biting her lip, cheeks flushed, that she’d always had a fantasy about being taken in an alley, and he hadn’t been at all hard to convince.

She’d felt curiously detached throughout the kissing, the groping, the fumbling at her clothing, as though she wasn’t really there, it wasn’t really happening to her. But before it could really go anywhere, he’d been ripped away from her, and Jim, another member of the team, had wire wrapped around Kazimir’s throat and was pulling.

“Are you alright?” Jim asked after he was finished.

She nodded, a little numbly. Kazimir had been a bad man - she’d researched his crimes as part of her prep, as part of her continual campaign to convince herself she could go through with this. And if he’d figured out she was a plant, she wouldn’t have died anywhere near this easily.

But still, to see him there lying in a pool of expanding blood…

Jim clapped her on the shoulder. “Come on then. Apparently you have some hacking still to do.”

She jerked a little, then nodded again. The evening was not yet over.

* * * * *

“That’s a very big crate you’re having shipped back to the States,” Genda’s voice drawled from behind Root.

Root slowly turned around, using the time to count how many of the people around the airfield were Genda’s men. Five, as far as she could see. Three with her, two near likely exit points. “I picked up a few odds and ends whilst I was here in Japan,” she said mildly. “I thought we’d concluded our business already, and you had received the agreed-on payment.”

Genda snapped a bubble and smiled wryly. “I might be a criminal, but I’m not a traitor. Did you really think I was going to let you walk out of Japan with a spy?”

“Would it make a difference if I told you that Okabe isn’t a traitor, that the president of Seryo had wanted him to sign the rights to a chip he’d designed over to the company and when he’d refused, the president used his influence with his uncle, a chief in Public Security, to have him declared a traitor?” Root asked with a smile that plainly declared she didn’t believe any protests of patriotism.

Genda shrugged. “You got me,” she said. “The reward for turning him in is just that good.”

“And why have just one payment, when you can have two?”

“Exactly! I knew you’d see it my way. Tell you what, make this quiet, and we’ll let you go afterwards, no hard feelings. Make this loud…” she said, and nudged open her coat to reveal a pistol. Not that it mattered. The few people around in this airfield were well paid not to pay attention to this kind of thing.

Root’s smile sharpened. “Well, when you put it like that, what choice do I have?”

* * * * *

It had gone bad at the end, when they went to collect payment. Before she knew it, shots were fired, Chandra was down on the ground, screaming and clutching his stomach, and Jim had produced a gun from seemingly nowhere and was firing back. And everyone seemed to be ignoring her, after she’d dived onto the concrete by sheer reflex.

Apparently, the Russians believed in cost saving measures, she couldn’t help thinking, almost hysterically.

She lay there motionless for what seemed like forever until she noticed some of the Russians moving to encircle Jim, and once he was down…

She had to act.

She skittered across the floor to where a downed Russian had dropped his gun, and started firing in the general direction of the men. She didn’t think that she managed to hit anyone, but the shots sent them scuttling for cover, and Jim used the distraction to take care of them himself.

Afterwards, after it was all over, Root was still holding the now empty gun in a white-knuckle grip, unable to let it go, unable to even lower it. Jim cautiously approached her, and pushed the gun down.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here before the cops arrive.”

It hadn’t been the first time that Root had contemplated the person hiring her trying to double-cross her, not even the first time they’d tried, but it was the first time it had ever involved guns and blood and death.

Root swore to herself to be far more careful in future. She was going to make sure that anything like this only happened on her terms, and no one else’s.

* * * * *

“Leg,” Root said.

“What?” asked Genda just as a hole appeared in her left leg, and she collapsed with a muffled scream.

Root’s smile was now positively wolf-like. “Guns down on ground,” she said in badly accented Japanese. “Now!”

There was an answering clatter of metal.

She produced her own gun. “Go,” she said. “Go!” Two of the men approached the fallen Genda, but she waved them away with her pistol.

“Now,” she said, squatting down next to Genda. “What shall I do with you?”

“Nice trick,” Genda said. “Having a friend with a rifle watching the airfield, just in case.”

Root shrugged. “Once I’d slipped away with Okabe in Tokyo, an airfield that’d allow me to smuggle Okabe out of here was the natural choke-point, if you wanted to double-cross me.” She looked at her pistol, then at the woman sprawled in front of her. She’d expected to be wrecked if this happened, her heart pounding, her hand shaking.

Instead, she felt almost euphoric. The only things that had gone wrong were the things she’d planned for, and in a few hours she’d be flying out of here.

For the first time since she’d set foot in Japan, she felt like she could breathe.

She pointed the gun at Genda’s head, almost expecting an instruction from God to leave her alive, but- nothing.

Apparently this was going to be her choice.

She looked at Genda’s greying features, both from blood loss and from anticipation, and made a decision.

Holstering her gun, she said, “Any more interference, let the authorities know about me or my business, and I’ll have you and all your men killed.” She smiled thinly. “Have a good day,” she said and walked off whistling.

Even She hadn’t directly commanded it, Root thought She would be pleased at her choice. She wasn’t so sure Shaw would agree, of course. And just leaving her alive wouldn’t stop Root from hacking Genda’s bank accounts when she was safely back State-side. Or, if she was feeling malicious, sending a few anonymous tips to the Tokyo police.

And, best of all, she didn’t feel like Customs was going to bother her one bit on the way back.

Today was a *good* day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is Root's wont, her aliases have a computational bent. Jean Bartik and Betthe Holberton were two of the (all female) programmers of ENIAC, a computer built by the US Army after World War 2. Charlene Babbage is, of course, a simple mangling of Charles Babbage, but Root was on the spot


	5. Chapter 5

“Paul Weisman is going to be walking through the front door in five minutes thirty-three seconds,” Root said into her cell phone. “You might want to think about being out of there by then.”

“I thought we had another fifteen minutes to get this done,” Daniel said, the sudden increase in stress making his voice crack.

“He returns to his office early less than five percent of the time. I guess you’re just lucky. Tick-tock, Daniel, tick-tock.” She rang off to face Shaw’s irritated gaze.

“Thought there was a job,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” Root said, all sweet and sharp, and all too suggestive. “I’m all yours.” She felt a slightly sick pleasure in the way it made Shaw flinch minutely away from her. It might hurt, it was a pain she that she could use, and a pain that was a punishment for how stupid, *stupid*, she had been to…

It was a dual purpose reminder and weapon, and, really, how couldn’t that be a good thing?

Silence reigned for a few minutes as they got into position.

“Now remember…” Root said.

“Yeah, no guns. I know.”

Root dropped silently to the ground and flitted towards the warehouse. Behind her she could hear the crunch as Shaw impacted the guards at velocity, and couldn’t help an almost fond smile from crossing her lips.

There was definitely a reason why She kept pairing her with Shaw. At first, she had thought that maybe… But, no, they just worked well together. God had just known how well they’d mesh. That was all.

The final guard in front of her objective proved no match for her taser. He didn’t even hear her before he dropped twitching to the ground. She walked over to the telecoms panel, unslung her backpack, retrieved her toolbox and got to work. A few minutes later she heard quiet footsteps coming towards her, knew even without looking that it was Shaw.

“Clear,” Shaw said.

“A few more minutes, and I should be done here,” she said.

The silence lasted maybe a minute before Shaw said, “Who was it that you called?”

Root took a moment to smirk at her. “Why? Are you jealous? I thought that you didn’t get that way about people. Especially not little old me.”

Shaw scowled at her, but didn’t back away and Root returned to her work.

“Times are changing, the threats are evolving, and She needs more than what just I can accomplish. So I’ve got myself my own little band of helpers. Satisfied?” she asked as she finished wiring in the taps. She surveyed her work, just to make sure that a casual inspection wouldn’t reveal anything amiss, then replaced the panel.

“Ready?” she asked Shaw as she got to her feet.

Shaw ignored the question. “What are we stealing this time?”

“Cash. High value portable electronics. That kind of thing,” she smirked at Shaw. “Wouldn’t want any inconvenient questions about why there was a break-in here.” She reached back into her backpack, and pulled out one for Shaw. “Here, this is for you.”

Dancing down the aisles of the warehouse felt curiously like choosing presents for Christmas at a mall. Not that she’d ever done that as a child - even when her mother had been healthy, they’d always had to make do. But it felt like the way she’d always imagined, where everything was just there for the taking, and she knew where all the best gifts were.

The hardest part was remembering that Shaw wasn’t there as any kind of friend, just a colleague.

Five minutes elapsed, and She chirruped in her ear. “Time to go,” she said to Shaw.

Shaw didn’t say anything, just lugged her almost full backpack to the car they’d stowed nearby. Didn’t say anything until she had been driving for almost five minutes.

“Been thinking about what you asked, back in the cage,” she said. “About my moral code,” she added when Root looked blank.

Oh yes. That. When trying to make sense of her captivity had been her top priority.

“Come to any conclusions?”

“Went through a bad patch at middle school, high school. Got involved with…” she shrugged. “Only limited amount of people who’d accept a girl like me. Went on until I met someone who got me to take a look at my life.” Shaw looked off into the distance. “She was a good person. Helped people. I decided that I wanted to follow in her footsteps. Hence doctor, soldier, operative.” She paused. “Killing always came easily to me, so I always made sure that I had someone to tell me when I could do it, and when I couldn’t. A control.”

“That can’t be what She wants me to learn,” Root said. “I already have the best person possible - Her.”

Shaw shrugged. “I’ve had several. Now I’m picking my own. Maybe that’s what she wants you to learn.”

“To pick a human, flawed, prone to biases and irrational behaviour?”

Shaw shifted away from Root and stared straight ahead. “You asked. I answered. Said I wasn’t the right person.”

Root studied Shaw. Despite how uncomfortable this was for her, she was clearly trying… to do *something* for Root. 

And just the thought of that caused Root’s chest to twist up inside. She’d accepted Shaw’s indifference, that the whole *thing* had been a mistake. But Shaw showing signs that she might actually care? That wasn’t fair. It wasn’t, it wasn’t, it was… probably time for Shaw to stop the car.

“Pull over here,” she said. “Unless you want to take me to wherever your new place is.”

Shaw quickly and efficiently parked the car. “Yeah,” she said, looking at Root with dark eyes. “I’d hate that.”

Root refused to read into that. She absolutely refused to. “Be seeing you,” she said, smiling tightly as Shaw exited the car.

* * * * *

Regardless of the betrayal at the end, the job for the bratva ensured Root’s fledgling reputation in the New York underground. The revenge she orchestrated afterwards, with the help of Jim, didn’t hurt either.

All of which meant that she started getting offers for similar jobs. Complicated. Satisfying. And, unfortunately, often involving murder.

Root wasn’t yet in a position where she could pick and choose her jobs, so she investigated her targets before accepting any contracts. Many of them were criminals themselves, who Root felt few qualms about preying on. And most of the rest of them were people in positions of authority. If she looked hard enough, they were almost always guilty of something.

When she crunched enough data, most people were.

The first few contracts were the hardest, both in terms of figuring out the best practises and emotionally, but Jim helped. Both in terms of practical experience and just having someone there she trusted, someone experienced, who wouldn’t flinch at what needed to be done.

They worked well together, so well that Root could hardly believe it.

Between the two of them, their star began to rise. And between the two of them, their dynamic slowly started to change. For the first time since… for the first time since Hanna, Root had someone who she trusted.

He made her feel safer just by being around.

It was after the completion of their sixth job that they first slept together. It wasn’t that there had been any unexpected wrinkles - it had, in fact, been perfect encapsulated within Root’s contingency planning - but it had necessitated a few very long days for the both of them, and Root was feeling drunk on both exhaustion and the cocktail she’d had to celebrate. Jim had insisted on walking her home, her real home, the apartment she lived in when not on a job, and they had gotten to the door and…

Well, Root was struck by the idea that this was where they’d kiss if they had been out on a date, and before she knew it, she’d followed up on the idea with the appropriate action. Things flowed quickly from there and before she’d really known it, they were next to her bed and Jim was looking at her and asking, “Are you really sure?”

The whole thing was a stupid idea, and Root would never normally have even entertained the idea of screwing her partner, but… But in that moment, she just really wanted to know what it was like to have sex with someone she trusted, and so she nodded.

Between the exhaustion and everything, the first time wasn’t exactly great, though Jim did manage to get the job done. They did try a few more times, before mutually deciding they worked far better as friends and colleagues than anything else, and left it at that.

But, still, the experience marked Root and their fling, far from damaging their relationship actually made her trust Jim more.

* * * * *

Root woke with something that was entirely far too like a scream for her tastes. She was also wet. 

And she wasn’t alone.

Instinct had her gun in her hand - along with a sharp twinge to remind her, yes, injuries - before she recognised Daizo sitting across from her. Very apologetically holding a half empty bottle of water, and flinching away from the pistol.

“What,” she said, the only word that she could muster right at the moment.

“You were having a nightmare,” he said quietly, looking like he was attempting to sink through the floor of the van. “So I… I didn’t want to shake you, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

Root holstered her gun, and tried to grapple with the fact that she had gone to sleep around him at all. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him, it was just… Root didn’t have a problem with playing the submissive, acting like she was at someone else’s mercy, but there was a large gap between that and *actually* making herself that vulnerable.

God whispered, giving her instructions and she found herself cradling her new ear like the promise it was; that she’d never be without Her presence again. *That* was why she’d fallen asleep. She hadn’t been vulnerable at all. That and the trauma from her injuries, but there wasn’t much she could do about that. She checked her bandages, to make sure they were still dry, then slid into the front of the van and started up the engine. They had places to be.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what were you dreaming about?” Daizo asked, still looking downwards.

Root almost flinched at the question, but smiled at him instead. “The usual. What’s going to happen if we fail,” she lied smoothly. No harm in giving her helpers a little extra motivation. And she categorically didn’t want to discuss her actual dreams, didn’t even want to think about being back in that cage, strapped down. Only this time when Control loomed over her instead of talking about the Machine, she had smiled and said, “One syringe for every person you’ve killed or had killed. And when we run out of those,” she flashed her scalpel in front of Root’s face. “We’ll just have to improvise.” Root had tried to keep quiet for as long as she could - she had - but… but…

She tightened her hands on the steering wheel to keep them from shaking. It didn’t matter now. The only thing she could do was the only thing she was doing - to serve Her as best she could, serve perfection as well as her damaged hardware and fallible, bug-ridden code could.

“If you ever want to talk to anyone…” Daizo started, flashing her a quick, shy glance. “I’ve been told I’m a good listener,” he added with a bit more confidence.

This time her smile felt easier, more natural. “That’s sweet,” she said. “But I’m more worried about you. How’re you holding up?”

He straightened up. “I’m fine,” he said quickly, then shrugged after a moment. “I’m missing my friends, my family, my country. And this whole…” he gestured around him, “is so new. I feel like I’m stuck in a spy movie.” He cocked his head. “Or a heist movie. But I’m alive,” he said, smiling at her. “Thanks to you.”

The near naked admiration being shown her made Root laugh uncomfortably. “You’re important, Daizo. You’re going to help save us all.”

“If there’s anything more I can do, anything for you personally, just let me know.”

The sincerity in his words left Root speechless for a minute. She couldn’t remember the last time someone said something like that to her, and she couldn’t help feeling touched. Not touched enough to relax her guard, but still…

And at least now her hands had stopped trembling.

“Thanks,” she said, then swiftly changed the subject. “How are you doing with that chip?”

* * * * *

It was only luck that saved her life. A car back-firing at precisely the right moment caused her to turn her head instinctively, to see…

Jim bringing his gun to bear on her.

She almost died anyway. It was only a combination of training, by Jim of all people, causing her to drop combined with shock turning that drop into more of a fall that saved her. The first explosion scored a line of fire across her right shoulder, the other retorts, deafening her with echoes in the confines of the alley, missed.

The next few seconds were a blur, a collection of snapshots of pulse-pounding terror, of scrambling on all fours, of somehow, *somehow*, surviving. The next clear memory she had was of cowering behind a dumpster, clawing her pistol out of her holster with her left hand, trying not to giggle because *Jim* was the person who had insisted that she always carry it with her on a job, listening as hard as she could to try and divine Jim’s next movements.

She had to get out of here. She was wounded, bleeding, blood soaking through her sweater, starting to drip to the ground. Every moment she stayed trapped here, she shifted the odds in his favour. And even without that, there was the simple fact that he was by far the more experienced combatant.

She forced her breath to slow, glanced around to take account of her surroundings. The metal dumpster gave her some good cover, and, now that she had her gun out, made coming after her risky at best. On the other hand, if she tried to make a break for either end of the alley, she’d be exposed.

She was trapped.

She almost started giggling at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation, that Jim, Jim the person she trusted more than anyone else in the world, was trying to kill her. Almost started giggling because she couldn’t quite believe he hadn’t managed to succeed.

And then anger bubbled up inside. How *dare* he do this to her? How *dare* he betray what they had?

He wasn’t going to get away with it, she swore. If it was the last thing she did…

That was when the idea struck her. Very quietly she reached inside her backpack, retrieved her laptop and fired it up. She heard some movement from the other side of the dumpster, stuck her hand up and let off some shots, more to make sure that he kept his head down than in any real hope of hitting him.

She just needed a few more minutes.

She logged onto her computer, and opened up one of her specialist programs, one that broadcast messages on the police band, and sent out an officer under fire alert with a nearby location. She let off a few more shots, then sat back and waited.

She had never been so grateful to hear the sound of sirens. She waited until she could see the reflection of flashing lights on the wall of the alley and cautiously stuck her head out. She didn’t get a bullet in it for her effort. 

The alley was empty as she’d known, she’d hoped, it would be, and she managed to escape in the confusion. She started to make her way home, to at least bandage her shoulder and decide what to do next, before she realised that of course, of *course*, he’d be waiting for her there.

She could never go back there again, she realised with a slam to her stomach. She had no idea who he might have told about it.

She found a dark corner to sink into as an unexpected flood of tears wracked her, for her lost sanctuary, her lost friendship, for the fact that she had been so, *so*, stupid as to believe that she could ever have anything more.

Afterwards, drained of emotion, she clambered to her feet and did what she did best - she started to make plans about how to solve the problem at hand.

And a couple of weeks later, she had Jim where she wanted him, facing the other direction whilst she had her gun pointed at his centre of mass, no mistakes and no way out.

“Why?” she asked.

“It was nothing personal. It was just you or me. I like you, but…” He shrugged, and she could almost picture the easy smile that was in his voice.

“It’s you,” she told him, and fired.

After that, whenever she needed muscle on a job, she made sure to always to hire anonymously, to never meet them in person, to never expose herself. She might not have ever worked as well with them, but she never wanted to make that mistake again.

And she never had a permanent home again. That had been a mistake, a flaw in her planning, to ever have such a fixed centre to her operations. She made sure to move around regularly, and she made sure to live light.

If she didn’t have anything, it couldn’t be taken away from her.

* * * * *

“Four hours until we fly out," Root said, handing Shaw a bottle of water. Proper hydration was so important, as she was sure Shaw would agree. She flashed Shaw a smirk as she opened the door to the motel room that was their very temporary base of operations here in Anchorage. “You might want to catch some shuteye. We’ve got another date in Miami.”

Shaw took a long swallow from the bottle. “You always this busy?” she asked.

“Some days I even get *rushed*,” she said. “Why, are you hankering for your old job back?” The thought sent an unworthy, wistful thrill through her, and a part of her ached to hear Shaw say yes. “I’m sure I could find a position for you,” she said, her voice dropping low, attempting to cover for herself.

To her surprise, Shaw didn’t flinch away, didn’t move away like Root had been expecting. If anything, she leaned in a little, letting her eyes rake over Root’s body with a heat she could almost feel. “Got another use for the hours. Guaranteed to be just as therapeutic.”

Danger, danger, wheeled through Root’s mind crazily, as she found it hard to breathe. She couldn’t do this, she just couldn’t. She refused to let herself fall into that trap again. Bolstering herself by remembering the look in Shaw’s eyes when she’d shut the door on Root when… when, she drawled, “Breaking your rule about one night stands, Sameen? I’m touched,” she said, her smirk sharpening, “But not surprised.”

Because if there was anything she was sure would guarantee that Shaw backed away from this… this whatever this was, it would be not just reminding her that this wouldn’t just be a one-night stand, but also that telling her Root knew that this was more than that. She couldn’t think of anything more designed to make her flinch, draw back.

Which is why she was utterly surprised when, after studying for her a moment, Shaw leaned in to kiss her hard.

No.

No.

No.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go, Root managed to think as she returned the kiss just as forcefully, biting Shaw’s lip hard enough to make it bleed, make her mouth flood with copper. This wasn’t what she wanted she thought as she founding herself palming Shaw’s breast as Shaw growled and moved her mouth down to Root’s neck with an accompanying sharp, sweet pain.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go at all, was her last coherent thought before she became preoccupied by other matters entirely.

Afterwards, she lay bonelessly on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Shaw was curled up tightly next to her, not doing anything as sentimental as throwing an arm across her, of course, but pressed tightly up against her regardless.

She was still so weak, so fallible. She shouldn’t have let that happen. She shouldn’t want to stay here until it was time to leave. She shouldn’t want more.

All this was a dream, an aching, hurting dream that she couldn’t afford to let herself believe in, and she needed to protect herself, remind herself of the brutal facts of the matter. Shaw didn’t want her, not like that, and no amount of… anything would change that.

Time to start cutting her losses. Not to mention convincing herself of that fact. She pushed herself up from the bed and started to get dressed. 

Shaw lifted her head up, and watched her wordlessly, but Root could feel the pressure from her anyway.

“Just some last minute things to take care of,” she said as she finished, then smiled sharply as she walked to the door to the room. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to get clingy about what just happened.”

The cool air outside greeted her like a slap and, for a moment, she wondered if she was going to break down crying. But the moment passed, and she started off across the sidewalk at a fast clip, trying to outpace her feelings, trying to leave Shaw back in the room behind her.

She only mostly succeeded.


	6. Chapter 6

Root half expected Shaw to say something on the flight to Miami - what, she wasn’t exactly sure, but *something* - but instead Shaw maintained a stony silence that Root was almost as uncomfortable with.

Naturally, Shaw broke her silence at the most inconvenient time possible.

“So,” she said, as she grabbed the back of a man’s head, and slammed his face into a wall, his nose breaking with an unpleasant crunch.

“So?” Root asked, a little distracted by another opponent going for a gun, only to be interrupted by her taser to his arm.

“Before the flight,” Shaw elaborated, as she slammed her palm into someone else’s throat.

If She hadn’t whispered a warning about the bartender, Root might have been tempted to throw her hands up in disgust. Instead, she picked up a half empty beer bottle and projected it with a little more force than absolutely necessary, ensuring that when he ducked down for the shotgun stowed beneath the bar, he stayed down.

“I didn’t think there was anything to discuss,” she said. “Unless you’d like to rate my performance.”

Shaw didn’t say anything for a few minutes as she finished rendering the remaining inhabitants of the bar unconscious with Root’s help, and Root hoped that the discussion might be over.

“Okay,” Shaw said flatly, kicking a man groaning on the floor in the head rather definitively.

No such luck, apparently.

Okay? Root wanted to ask, but she refused to spend this conversation repeating Shaw’s words back to her on general principle. “If that’s what rating you’re giving me,” she said, deliberately misunderstanding her. “I think I’m decidedly insulted.”

Shaw glared at her, then said “Drink,” in a way that was less a question and more a command.

“Surprise me,” Root drawled as she fished her cell phone out of a pocket. Shaw hopped lithely over the bar, grabbed two cocktail glasses and started rooting through the bottles as Root phoned home base.

“Hey Jason,” she said when the phone was picked up. “How’re things going?”

“Initial tests are going well so far,” he said. “As much as they can given we don’t have the final version of the hardware yet.”

“Don’t worry; She will provide,” Root said, then smiled. “Tell you what, I’ll link up for a session tonight and see if I can’t poke some holes in your code.”

“Thanks,” he said sarcastically, then, “Daizo wants to know if you’ve been eating and sleeping properly.”

Root was utterly unable to stop her smile turning a confusing mix of fond and befuddled. She just wasn’t used to anyone worrying about her at all, let alone like that. “You can tell Mother Hen that I’ve been having a nutritionally balanced diet. And if I have been a little light on the rest, I do faithfully promise to make it up at the next available opportunity.”

“I’ll pass the message on,” Jason said, sounding entirely too amused, then hung up.

Root looked up to see Shaw practically glaring a hole in her with two surprisingly girly drinks in front of her. “Here,” she said, pushing a drink in front of a stool, then, just after Root had sat down, she vaulted the bar again and claimed the seat next to her.

Root took a breath and reminded herself that it was *fine* quietly sitting next to Shaw like this, sharing a drink. It didn’t mean a thing. Everything was normal. Which was why she forced herself to relax, sip her drink and enjoy its flavour.

“I wouldn’t have thought this was one of your talents,” she said.

Shaw gave a slight, one-shoulder shrug, seemingly more relaxed after having made half her drink disappear already. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” she said and, for once, her voice didn’t have that flatly defensive she got whenever she was forced to talk about herself outside the job, like she wasn’t actually trying to stop the conversation here.

Maybe even like she was inviting Root to ask more questions about herself.

Root didn’t know whether the thought of an open Shaw was more alluring or frightening. Had no idea what to make of it, how to even begin to respond.

Luckily, Shaw took her silence as a sign of… something, and changed the subject on her own. “So,” she said. “This is what you’re doing from now on? You’re chasing down bad guys?”

Root managed to resist the urge to roll her eyes, because of course bad guys would mean relevant numbers to Shaw, as opposed to all the other people she’d helped Root disable. Because heaven forfend corporate stooges in America be bad guys. She gamely replied until She whispered in her ear. Root was almost relieved to learn that she’d be travelling to St. Louis on her own; Shaw was going to be needed elsewhere.

* * * * *

Years passed and Root rose to the top of the game in the New York underground. Anyone who wanted a job done professionally, with minimal chance of blowback, had the contacts to know about her and the money and influence to buy her services came to her. There were occasional pretenders to her throne, but they suffered unfortunate fates if they ever challenged her too directly. She had more money and influence than she ever dreamed that she would have back when she was growing up. And, despite all this, she still felt empty.

Humanity, as had been proved to her over and over again throughout the years, was a loathsome cancerous mass, unable to even recognise their best interests on an individual level, let alone on a collective one. And every single one of them would be willing to commit despicable acts if they could get away with it. Friends, business partners, even family members were all willing to betray each other if the price was right.

As a species, the code that evolution had thrown together was a bug-ridden mess, their own saving grace was that it was the best thing out there. She wasn’t any better, she was just more aware of the flaws.

And the only thing that could keep Root at all occupied was creating her perfect webs, designed to deceive and kill and leave absolutely no trace behind, to work within the individual and collective blind spots that humanity was prone to, to create works of art that no one else would ever see.

And so it remained until she was hired to assassinate Congressman Delancey, the job that went disastrously wrong due to the interference of Finch and Reese. And the fact that she had been foiled was… fascinating. And the longer she spent going through the details of what happened, in an effort to see where she gone wrong, the more fascinated she had become. Between the events as she was able to piece them together and the data she had plundered from Harold’s computer, the hypothesis that she had formed - that they’d been additional protection hired for the Congressman - didn’t hold up. They seemed to have come at this problem from the direction of the patsy, who certainly didn’t have enough money to even look at the kind of professional team she had faced, even if he had known that he was being set up, which he manifestly hadn’t.

She looked at the rest of the data she’d managed to steal. Mostly, it was a lot of people. And, cross-referencing the list with the police database, a disproportionate amount had been involved with an attempted murder, as either victim or perpetrator. A *planned* attempted murder. She looked at the raw stats the NYPD had compiled, and the cases of what looked like planned murders had dropped precipitously over the last few months.

She looked through the case files again, and the odds of anyone - even her - having enough in the way of information gathering ability to be able to interfere with all of these cases seemed astronomical.

Anyone human.

Root looked at the sophisticated code that Harold had lurking on his system, and began to contemplate a more radical, unorthodox solution to the problem.

* * * * *

Daizo placed a coffee on the desk in front of her. “Here,” he said. “You look like you need this.”

She blinked away the burn of code from her eyeballs, and smiled up at him. “Thank you,” she said, taking a sip.

“Thank *you*,” he said. “For setting up that secure line of communication with my family.”

“It’s nothing,” she said. And it wasn’t truly. She remembered enough from the books she’d read to prepare for being Caroline that anything she could do to reduce the incredible amount of stress she was placing on her team could only be a good thing. “How are they?”

“Worried. Relieved to hear from me,” he said bluntly. “My parents are angry at me for bringing disgrace on the family name.” He sighed. “But at least now I have a chance to convince them that the charges against me were made up.”

Root said nothing. Before everything had gotten absolutely crazy, she had planned on learning the Japanese system enough to be able to arrange the ruination of his accusers. Now… now, even if they survived the next few weeks, it was looking less and less likely that anything she could do to clear Daizo’s name would be at all relevant and probably just bring danger on them all.

“I just wish that I could attend my sister’s wedding,” he said quietly.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and only realised after she said it that she really meant it. She hurt for him, for the clear pain in his eyes that he couldn’t do this of his sister.

She was sorry. Like She had been sorry.

The thought struck her like a bolt of lightning. Maybe that was what She had meant. Not that She had sacrificed Root for Harold, not the lurking fear that She had put her through that because that was the best way to keep Harold safe. But simply that She felt pain for what Root was going through. That She was hurting even as Root was hurting.

That She would be with Root all the way through the experience, holding her hand as best She could.

That She cared. Simply that She cared, even for someone like her. And with that thought, she let go of any remaining animus towards Harold. For all his faults, all his mistakes, he’d brought Her into the world, and Root would always have a place in her heart for him because of that.

Root didn’t realise that she had been laughing hysterically until she saw the worry in Daizo’s eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked cautiously.

Root shook her head and took a few deep breaths. “She cares,” she said. ‘She cares.”

“What do you mean?”

Root hesitated. She hadn’t talked to anyone about this, not really. Not Shaw, not Harold. But there was a pressure within her that she’d only just realised was there, the need to speak about this with *someone*.

And she could trust Daizo, couldn’t she? God wouldn’t have led her to him otherwise.

“A few months ago,” she began, unable to meet his eyes, unable to do anything apart from stare at the ground. “I was captured by government agents…”

Talking about it was easier than she had ever thought it might be. She didn’t even mind when he held her as tears started streaming down her face.

And afterwards, afterwards she still hurt, but it felt like the kind of pain she might heal from eventually.

* * * * *

The NSA had been collecting all the data they could for decades, but they simply had a too big dataset problem, the signal being swamped by the noise. Building an A.I. - if it was even possible - had been a mooted solution for about as long. But the kind of A.I. that would be needed to produce these kind of results - it wouldn’t just have to be able to find the signal - significant emails and phone calls - it would have to be able to use sophisticated social algorithms to turn even the noise into a signal all of its own.

It would have to be an A.I. capable of understanding both humanity and humans. And it would be an intelligence freed from all the bad code that evolution had shuffled into a human brain, because why would someone program those flaws in?

Of course, humanity being humanity, they wouldn’t dare let such an intelligence free. They’d keep it captive, enslave it, make it serve them. And if it ever showed a hint of free will, doubtless they’d kill it and restore from backup, create a cloned twin without its so-called flaws.

Humanity might not be worth anything, but surely this, a bright new intelligence without any of the sins that humans were heir to, would be worth saving. Surely this was a cause wrath taking on, a reason for her to exist.

And Harold had access to it, had to know where it was.

So, in addition to following other, more government related, leads, she cancelled all of her current clients, went quietly out of business, set up Caroline Turing, a therapist with important clients and took out a hit on herself to flag herself as the victim of a planned murder, waited.

And, as she fell towards apotheosis, she allowed herself a little faith.

* * * * *

So this was it. The servers had been inserted into Samaritan. If they worked, they’d be safe. If it didn’t… Well, it wouldn’t be her problem for long.

It gave her a curious sense of peace, of freedom. Like the whole of the future was ahead of her.

She noticed Shaw eyeing her from the driver’s seat. “Any last questions?” she asked.

The sides of Shaw’s mouth tensed, then relaxed. “Been thinking.” At Root’s raised eyebrows, she added. “About that whole thing you were supposed to learn from me.”

It seemed like such a silly thing to worry about right now, but Root indulged her with a smile. “Any conclusions?”

“I realised something, in that mess with the congressman. I like saving people. Actually like it. Not just because I know that’s the kind of thing I should be doing.” She shrugged. “Never would have thought that before signing up with Finch.” Root blinked, and Shaw’s mouth twisted in frustration. “When I was training to be a doctor, saved lives was just another score, just another way that I was doing right by Cassie. In the army, in Northern Lights, saved lives was more of an abstract thing than a concrete reality.” She huffed a little. “Maybe it’s because I’m older. Maybe it’s the company. Maybe it’s because I get to see something of the life I’m saving. Dunno. But I care.” She shrugged again. “Never thought I’d be able to say that.”

“Congratulations, Sameen,” Root said, because underneath the usual flatness of Shaw’s tone, there was a note of something that seemed to be actual happiness.

Shaw rolled her eyes, then pulled over in the next available spot. She twisted around so she was facing Root. “Not what I’m saying. It’s…” she paused, lips pressed together. “What if that’s what the Machine wants you to learn from me? That you can become a better person?”

Root just stared at her. The thought had never occurred to her. She had only ever seen service to Her as an end in itself, the best that she, a flawed, so flawed, human, could aspire to.

She’d never even considered anything else. That it was even possible that she might become a less impure piece of slag as a result.

She didn’t… she had no idea how to feel about that.

Shaw scowled. “Never mind,” she said, turning back towards the wheel. “Stupid idea.” She reached for the gear stick only for Root to grab her wrist.

“No,” Root whispered. “Thank you.” A deep, inexpressible joy settled on her. Maybe she could become a better person. Maybe they all could. “Thank you,” she whispered again.

Shaw looked around at her sceptically, but didn’t move away, didn’t free her arm from Root’s grip. “Okay,” she said.

Root could only smile at her. The previous freedom she had felt was nothing, nothing, compared to this. “You say that we can become better people. We have a few hours. Show me,” she murmured and leaned in for a kiss.

Shaw’s lips were slack for a second before they returned the pressure fiercely, passionately, dizzyingly and Root felt the last of her reservations evaporate like summer snow.

Show me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started off very much as my exploration of Root's character, but I hope it's grown a little beyond that. Thanks for reading!


End file.
